


At the Sea

by Rammy (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 20:43:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5554703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Rammy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione, weighed down by the pressures of her Ministry career, is comforted by Fleur in a moment at the sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaymergal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaymergal/gifts).



> Hello! This was written for an exchange on Tumblr. I've never written femslash before, but after this, I foresee myself doing more of it in the future. I never realized the romantic potential between Fleur and Hermione.

With briny wisps of wind moistening her skin, Hermione relaxed her scarcely clad form into the sand. Splashing noises rolled off the waves and created a vague pulsing sensation, as if the sea was breathing with her in a synchronized rhythm. It was enough to slacken her tensely knotted shoulders from their constricted state, but neither the ebb and flow of the sea nor the shot of Firewhisky she gulped readily from her flask could scour her mind clean from the ceaseless annoyances that occupied her hours at the Ministry.

She’d assumed that her pursuit of fairer legislation for magical creatures would transpire with less tedious paperwork and more liberated house-elves. Her youth, in retrospect, was laden with a number of optimistic assumptions that proved little more than wishful fantasies. She had thought that the nightmares of war would end. She had thought that navigating pure-blood social networks would be manageable for the famous friend of Harry Potter. And, perhaps most painfully of all, she had thought that at 25 years old, she’d spend her Friday nights in Ron’s embrace, not half-buzzed at the seaside by Shell Cottage.

Had she really asked for too much?

 _Crack_.

Her attention fell on her weekly distraction, a pale, blonde witch in periwinkle robes. Fleur stood proud, one delicate hand against her tapered waist, with her immense beauty shining radiantly under the glow of the moonlight. Normally, Hermione would rise to greet Fleur and chastely profess her boundless affection. But, something felt different. She felt different. Rather than trace the path of a pattern she may’ve repeated one hundred times, she rested silently on her side, head propped by her wrist and mouth twisted in a coy smile.

“I theenk zat it is too cold for your swimsuit, ‘Ermione,” Fleur chided disapprovingly in her accented English. Unable to ascertain whether Fleur meant her comment as a slight, Hermione stared blankly back at her, her brown eyes set on those the deepest shade of blue. Fleur snorted, her expression wrought with soft condescension, and wordlessly charmed her robes into nonexistence with the tap of her wand so that she, too, stood in no more than her undergarments.

“Lay with me?” Hermione asked at the sight of Fleur’s immaculate physique, knowing fully that her request was unnecessary. The other woman complied and laid in vertical alignment with Hermione, just within an inch of touching her.

It was not an embellishment to describe Fleur’s beauty as intoxicating. If anything, it was an understatement, and Hermione’s ability to refrain from pressing her body against her was as impressive as her prodigious spellcasting. She reluctantly let her eyes wander from the string of Fleur’s knickers, taut over a crafted hip, to the sharp dip of flesh that plateaued and rose into the plump mound of her breast. She looked once more to catch Fleur’s eyes and blushed, a tinge discomfited at her knowing glower.

“You are very beauteeful, ‘Ermione,” Fleur admired, raising her idle hand to brush tenderly against Hermione’s reddened cheek. “Tell me about your work, how eet iz going.”

Hermione gratefully accepted the diversion, the sudden image of Nott’s derisive sneer effectively subduing the intensity that Fleur ignited in the pit of her stomach. She expressed in ample detail her inability to fathom the antiquity of wizarding law, alcohol relenting the same swear words she bit back in the presence of her coworkers over lunchbreak. To that lot, well-dressed pure-bloods who could no more work a telephone than she could operate a space shuttle, she fibbed shamelessly that Muggles boasted a far more complex, efficient legal system than their own. The lie was worth their paranoid cries of disbelief.

“Why vould you lie like zat?”

“It’s not a total lie,” she amended shrewdly. “All forms of slavery have been abolished and criminalized in Western Europe. The concept of a house-elf would disgust any Muggle worth knowing.”

“Eet iz interesting, I theenk,” Fleur said softly. “Mugglez. They are strange. How vas yer younger days? As a Muggle?”

Hermione rolled to her back, thoughts drifting to a rarely tapped memory as she took in the bright cluster of overhead stars. She must’ve been no more than 7 years old when her mother encouraged her to peek past their open window and wish upon a distant comet. She remembered gasping at the beauty of its rocketing light, brushing marvelously over the sky like a brilliant stroke of paint. Voice so hushed that no one else could hear her mutter, she wished for nothing less than an explanation. Why did her empty mug refill itself with water of its own accord? How come her dearest book, a frayed copy of _Matilda_ , flew into her hands when she willed for it to happen? Was it because she was uniquely brilliant, or did her oddity stem from an alien parent that left her to live on earth? Why was she different?

“I didn’t belong,” Hermione said simply, turning her head again to Fleur. “My parents were wonderful: caring, intelligent, attentive. I never went without what I needed. But the Muggle world is no place for a witch.” She lifted her arm to illuminate a faded scar, a slur etched to remind her of what she feared far before she boarded the Hogwarts Express. “And yet the wizarding world is no place for a mudblood. There’s nowhere I belong.”

The narrow bridge of Fleur’s nose bundled in a scrunch to match her furrowed brows. The smooth tips of her fingers skimmed the underside of Hermione’s chin, ever deepening her heavy gaze. Vulnerability rising in her, Hermione’s breathing hitched; she did not need to hear Fleur’s consolation to comprehend what her look conveyed. But Fleur spoke anyway, tone dense with discreet strength.

“ _C’est des conneries!_ I am a quarter-veela, ‘Ermione. These pure-bloods theenk low of me, that my kind iz a mascot for their sport. We cannot accept zis nonsense they say.”

 “I know, Fleur,” she responded soberly. “That’s why I keep fighting. I know I can’t let their prejudices get to me. Now that You-Know-Who is gone for good, we have a real chance to change things. We’re on the brink of a new age, really.”

Fleur retracted her hand and clenched a fistful of gorgeous blonde tresses. Hermione recognized this habit of Fleur’s, it was among the few telltale signs that her usually unbreakable poise was retreating into insecurity. “I am curious to theenking what eet meeanz for us.”

Encouraged by a wanton rush of adoration, Hermione closed the distance between them and claimed Fleur’s lips for her own. Their kiss grew heated as Hermione crept her leg sensually over the other’s waist, both rocking along to the smooth cadence of the tide. The connection could’ve lasted until her dying day and it wouldn’t have felt adequate to satiate her wants, but in a desperate need to see her lover’s face, Hermione pulled herself away and absorbed the tantalizing flush across vibrant, porcelain skin.

“It means nothing to us,” Hermione assured, dipping back down to kiss a breathy, carnal trail to Fleur’s ear. “What we have will never be their's to take.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
